


Take My Heart When You Go

by a_rose_in_misery



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-20 07:35:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19372174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_rose_in_misery/pseuds/a_rose_in_misery
Summary: “Please.” Her voice was very small. Her fingers reached up and twisted at his collar.“Anything.”“I’ve never seen your eyes.”





	1. The New Recruit

      He found the new recruit lying on the floor panting. Glory stood over her, chuckling. Whisper groaned.  
      “Ugh, why did I agree to this?”  
      “Sparring lessons?” Deacon asked.  
      Glory nodded. Whisper pulled herself into a sitting position.  
      “That’s enough for today. Not bad, newbie. I’ll have to step up my game tomorrow.” Glory clapped her on the shoulder and left.  
      Deacon helped Whisper to her feet. “You’re a braver soul than I,” he teased. “She accidentally killed the last person she tried to train.”  
      Whisper’s eyes widened. “She did?”  
      “Yep. One hit from our angel of death and the guy was… well, dead. Pity, he was a promising recruit. Like someone else I know.”  
      “She… wait,” Whisper’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Hmm, ok.”  
      It was almost cute watching her trying to figure him out. “Ok what?” he asked.  
      “I’m not sure I believe you,” she whispered as if relaying sensitive information.  
      “Now, you’re starting to catch on.”  
      Whisper grinned.  
      “You’ll fit right in here,” Deacon continued. “We’re just one big dysfunctional family… with guns!”

\---

      They shared a Nukacola in the Ticonderoga safe house after helping High Rise smuggle a synth from Bunker Hill. It was late and everyone else was asleep except for a few runners and techies in the next room over.  
      “Hey, I’ve got something on my mind.”  
      She leaned forward. “Shoot.”  
      “I’ve been having second thoughts about the whole recall code thing…” He paused for dramatic effect and pretended to study her reaction. “Wait, you read it didn’t you?”  
      “No! Of course not!”  
      “Good. Please don’t.” He made sure to sound relieved, but in truth he was a little disappointed.  
      “Do you want it back?” She pulled her pack from behind the couch and rooted through it. “Here, take it.” She held out the paper.  
      “Aww, forget I said anything.”  
      Whisper frowned. She looked from the paper to Deacon and back to the paper.  
      “Is this a test?” She sounded annoyed.  
      “Of course not.”  
      “Does this,” she brandished the note, “say something stupid?”  
      “No way. Scouts honor.”  
      Her brow knitted. She hesitated, unfolded the note, and scanned it. Then, she looked up and raised an eyebrow.  
      “You can’t trust everybody?”  
      Now she’d done it. Deacon leaned back in his seat shaking, spitting a stream of rapid-fire gibberish at her. Whisper squealed and lurched forward, knocking over the bottle and spilling the Nukacola all over both of them. Deacon threw his head back and laughed.  
      “God, I really got you.”  
      “You!” She gasped. “You asshole! What the fuck!”  
      “Your face…”  
      Whisper folded her arms, her cheeks burning. “Spilled the fucking Nukacola,” she grumbled under her breath.  
      “Hey, I’m sorry.” He held up his hands in apology but the grin didn’t budge from his face.  
      “I don’t believe you,” Whisper retorted, her lips pursed in an effort to keep from giggling. She plucked a rag from somewhere in the depths of her pack and began to blot at her shirt.  
      “You don’t believe I’m sorry?”  
      “Nope!”  
      “That hurts my feelings.” Now finished cleaning herself up, she moved on to the sticky splotch on his shoulder. He jerked almost imperceptibly at her touch. No one had touched him in a long time. Not without the intent to harm anyways.  
      “Hey,” he pushed her hand away, hoping she didn’t notice the blush creeping across his cheeks, “I joke but that note is a hard truth. You can’t trust everybody.”  
      “I can’t trust you, apparently.” But he could tell she didn’t mean it.

\---

      He missed her after the relay. He hated to admit it, but it was true. In those weeks clearing routes for the runners and scouring the ‘Wealth for parts for the Interceptor, he had gotten used to having someone watching his back. It had been a nice change.  
      With her gone, the nightmares came back. That surprised him, too. It had been years since those nights when he would wake gasping in a cold sweat, reaching for some chem, anything to make him forget.  
      It was the same scene now as it always had been. He came home to a house in flames. The University Point Deathclaw tag was sprayed in huge letters across the side of the barn. He ran up the path, heart pounding, praying to a god he didn’t believe in, and tripped over something solid, hidden in the writhing shadows, and it was her. The blood pooled black around her head. When he bent to touch her, he saw that the back of her head was caved in revealing a small tangle wires and circuitry, gristly with blood and brain matter. Her eyes gazed blankly into the uncaring night.  
      Except this time when he rolled her over, it was Whisper’s dead eyes staring back at him.  
      Tinker Tom insisted that the relay had worked but P.A.M. calculated a twenty percent chance of Whisper surviving the blast. The chance she would make it back to them was even lower. The morning after the relay, Desdemona went to cross Whisper’s name off the board and found the chalk missing.  
It wasn’t that he had grown attached to her. He had just gotten used to her; that was all. He had been traveling with her for a while and following her for a bit before that.  
      Still, he broke into an unconscious smile when late one night, after spending the day in Bunker Hill talking up a prospective tourist, he returned to HQ to find her asleep on his mattress.  
      “You know, someone could have told me our number one Courser killing, Institute infiltrating agent was back. I would have changed into my nice sneakers.”  
      Drummer Boy passed him hauling a box of circuitry for Tinker Tom. “What are you…? Is that…? Hey, Whisper’s back! Dez, Whisper’s back!”  
      “Whisper’s back? Fuck, yeah!” Glory hooted.  
      “I told you it worked!” Tom popped his head up from behind his desk.  
      “You said they probably killed her once she materialized.”  
      “Well, sure I said that but…”  
      “Did she actually…”  
      “P.A.M said…”  
      Cutting through the overlapping voices, Dez pushed her way to the front of the rapidly forming crowd. “Whisper!”  
      Whisper sat up on the mattress, bleary eyed. “Yeah?” She ran a hand through her hair, obviously uncomfortable with so many eyes on her.  
      “I take it the mission was a success?” An incredulous smile lurked on Desdemona’s lips.  
      “I made it there and back. Oh, I got in contact with Patriot. Nice guy.”  
      “Alright, save it for the official debriefing,” Dez said. She turned and looked at the crowd. “You all have work to do.”  
      There was some grumbling but they dispersed. Dez beckoned to Whisper and led her into P.A.M.’s room.  
      “See you on the other side, partner!” Deacon called.

\---

      She sat on the floor against the wall with a bowl of broth clutched in her hands. “Heard you stole the chalk from the board.”  
      “Lies. I would never.”  
      He watched her sip at her soup. She looked tired but unharmed. A strand of hair fell from behind her ear and skimmed the ceramic edge of the bowl.  
      “What?” Despite the sunglasses, she had caught him staring. He was losing his touch. “You missed me?” she teased.  
      “With every fiber of my being, boss. I counted each hour, no, each second –”  
      “Yeah, yeah.”  
      “Well, maybe I got used to having a partner. It’s been a while since that happened. The last one went insane. Maybe it was all the musical theater medleys.”  
      “Don’t even joke about musical theater,” she laughed. God, it was good to hear her laugh. “I will hold you to that.”  
      “I would never lie about musical theater.” Deacon placed a hand over his heart.  
      Whisper’s smile faded. “I used to love theater. I guess that’s another thing I’ll never have again.” Casting her eyes downward, she blew on the broth before taking another sip. “ _So Eden sank to grief_ ,” she murmured to herself.

\---

      She was different after her return. Quieter. Slower to smile. Warier of strangers.  
      One night, as she prepped to go back under again, she leaned forward in her seat, hung her head with her hands pressed against the back of her neck, and asked him, “You ever get tired?”  
      “Every night when the sun goes down.”  
      “Ok, never mind.”  
      And, to his surprise, he felt a gentle prick of guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fic! I hope you enjoy it.  
> The quote "So Eden sank to grief" is from Robert Frost's "Nothing Gold Can Stay"


	2. War and Peace

         Whisper sat on the pavement outside the Pulowski Preservation Shelter, tossing rocks at the fallen stop sign across the street.

         “This is fine,” she said. “It’s not like we’ve got places to be or anything.”

         “Are you that eager for your next mission? I could have sworn I read something about the concept of vacation time in those old pre-war books.”

         She stretched her arms over her head to work out the kinks in her shoulders.

         “Maybe I wanted to sleep on a real mattress tonight.”

         Through the plastic, she heard a muffled laugh.

         “Sleep? In HQ? You know the minute you’re through the door, it’ll be ‘Whisper, do this,’ ‘Whisper do that,’ ‘Deacon, where’s that report?”

         Whisper traced a crack in the pavement with the tip of her finger. “Ok, point one for the Institute: I can actually get some sleep there.”

         “Sure, sure, they’re great if you, you know, ignore the whole slavery thing.”

         The door to the shelter slide open and Deacon emerged, wearing a mostly white lab coat with a pen and notepad tucked in the pocket.

         “Dr. Deacon here to fix what ails you,” he announced.

         Whisper laughed and he felt a burst of warmth in his chest.

         “Dr. Deacon? What if we meet someone who actually need medical attention?”

         Deacon touched the cap of the pen to his chin as if thinking. “Well, sir,” he addressed an imaginary patient, “I could certainly help you with that but I think it would behoove my young assistant to get some practice with the patients. Don’t worry. She knows what she’s doing.”

Whisper giggled and put a hand over her mouth. “You wouldn’t!”

         “I trust her completely. Go ahead and take off your pants, sir.”

         Whisper gasped and swatted at his arm. Shaking his head, Deacon held up his hands in surrender. Whisper scoffed. She leaned down, picked up her pack, and slung it over her shoulder with a groan.

         “Hey, I could fix you up after you break your back with all that scrap.”

         “I need it.”

         “Whisp, buddy, no one needs seven desk fans.”

         “I do. You try fixing turrets, water pumps, generators, and all the other crap I gotta fix without screws and gears.”

         “Alright, pal, whatever you say.”

         She set her gaze resolutely on the horizon and began to march down the road with slow, heavy steps.

         Deacon kept pace with her for a bit. Then he skipped ahead and scouted out the area ahead. All clear. He headed back to her side. She kept trudging on. He could tell from the set of her mouth that she regretted hauling so much but she’d be damned if she admitted defeat now.

         “You know, now that you’re so weighed down, this is the perfect time to read you _War and Peace_. Unabridged.”

         That got her attention. She stopped, looked at him with eyes far too serious for this kind of discussion and asked, “Do you actually have a copy of that?”

         It was his turn to laugh. “That was supposed to be a threat.”

         “Do you, though?”

         Yes.

         “Nope. Sorry, partner.”

         She sighed, her bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly in a show of almost child-like disappointment. For a second, he had the wild impulse to lean forward and kiss her. Before he could start to unpack everything messed up in _that_ thought, she began to move forward again.

         “That’s one of those I always meant to get around to but never did. If I’d’ve know the world was ending, I would have read more. I mean, I read a lot but I would have read more.”

         “Yeah, knowledge is power, and all that. Did you know that in the Capital Wasteland, they use old world books as currency instead of caps?”

         She snorted and the light of the setting sun shimmered in her hair. “Sure, they do.”

         “Hey, is it really any weirder than using bottle caps?”

         Engrossed in conversation, neither of them were really watching where they were going until Whisper stumbled over a cracked curb. She twisted, fell back on her ass and swore loudly.

         “Here.” He extended a hand. “I can carry some.”

         She grinned at him and he felt his heart stop. “You’re the best!”

         Later that week while clearing out a raider hide out, she just so happened to come across an unabridged copy of War and Peace stashed in a chem locker.

         “Funny. Who knew raiders were such big readers. Maybe that’s where the name comes from. Raider. Reader.”

         Whisper shook her head. “Mr. I-don’t-own-a-copy,” she muttered under her breath but she smiled all the same. Deacon felt his face grow hot. He was sure she hadn’t seen him slip in and out of that room before she rounded the corner but she was far from stupid. She wouldn’t have made it this far if she wasn’t. Still he had to play along.

         “Don’t look at me. I had no idea that would be there.”

         That night as they sat in the light of a small fire in the crumbling husk of an old abandoned warehouse, she flicked on the light of her Pipboy and began to read aloud. He huddled down in his sleeping bag and listened, warm and more content than he had been in a long time. It was almost enough to make a guy forget that they were all going to die sooner rather than later.

         After about an hour, she tapered off in the middle of a paragraph.

         “Deacon,” she whispered. “Are you asleep?” One of the perks of always wearing sunglasses: no one could tell whether you were actually awake and paying attention to what they were telling you. He did not respond to her query. He wanted to see what she would do.

         The pages rustled as she closed the book and tucked it into her pack. He heard her sleeping bag zip open and then zip closed again.

         “Goodnight,” she whispered. “Thanks for the book.” She hesitated and then added, “You’re a good friend.”

         Friend. He felt his breath catch in his throat. He wasn’t supposed to have friends. He was a lone wolf, someone without any family to put in the line of fire if he screwed up. Someone without any family _because_ he had screwed up. He didn’t work with partners. He didn’t get attached. But… it was her.

         He waited until her breathing deepened to prop himself up on an elbow, slip off his sunglasses, and take in her sleeping face uninhibited. The dying embers of the fire colored her skin a rosy pink and caught on the yellow strands in her copper brown hair, turning them into twisting veins of gold. These past few weeks hadn’t been easy on her but now she looked… peaceful.

_If I were not myself_ , he thought, _but the brightest, handsomest, best man in the world…_ The next words stopped him mid-thought: _And if I were free_.

 

         His collection of books was meager compared to what she must have had access to pre-war but he started leaving them where he knew she would find them.

 

\---

 

         Deacon found her a block from the church, sitting on a park bench. He imagined that in a different time, she would have come here for a peaceful spot to read or think or just sit and watch the world spin by. She was looking at the stars with her knees pulled up to her chest. Well, it was now or never. He tried to ignore the tightness in his chest.

         “Hey. I’ve got something important to say.”

         She didn’t flinch as she might have when they first started traveling together. Instead she turned and smiled softly at him. “Ok,” she said and gestured for him to take a seat next to her. She was used to him popping out of the shadows. If she was being honest with herself, she didn’t know what she would do if she turned around one day and he wasn’t following behind her. Before the war, she had been somewhat afraid of the dark. Now it meant safety. It meant someone watching her back. It meant him with his warm smile and his teasing lessons and his strong arms. She flushed and put that thought from her mind. They didn’t have time for that.

         “I really appreciate you putting up with my bullshit,” he began as he sat down. “Truth is it’s been a long time since I’ve had a… friend.”

         Whisper watched him quizzically. What was this?

         “I’m a liar.”

         “Really? You mean you’ve lied to me before?” Whisper interjected, hiding her nerves with a playful smile.

         “I’m being serious. For once, let me tell you something true, huh?” He took a breath. “Truth is: I’m a fraud to my core.”

            Deacon had gone over this enough in his head to recite the story quickly without looking at her. He didn’t want to see the look on her face when he told her… when he told her what he really was. When he got to the part about Barbara, when he said her name, he paused. It was strange, hearing that name linger in the air between them. It had been so long since he had talked about her with anyone.

            “What was she like?”

            Of all the things Whisper could have asked, this was not what he was expecting.

            “She… She had a smile like on those old magazine covers. Her eyes… we were trying for kids.” He didn’t mean to tell her that last part. He had never told anyone that last part. But she was looking at him with those guileless brown eyes and he couldn’t stop himself. He told her about their life. He told her about her death, how the Deathclaws had found her, how they had been looking for him. He had led them right to her. He wrapped it up quickly after that, giving her the bare bones of how he had taken his revenge and how the Railroad had recruited him afterwards.

            “I don’t know why I lie anymore. But I can’t tell the truth. Everyone –Tom, Dez, you, even that asshole Carrington –they deserve to be in the Railroad. I don’t. I’m everything that’s wrong with this whole fucking Commonwealth. You’re the only friend I’ve got. I don’t deserve you being ok with this. Hell, I’m not even asking for it.”

            He wanted her to tell him he disgusted her. He wanted her to yell at him and storm off. Instead, she just looked at them with those eyes. She must not understand. She probably didn’t believe him.

            “After all the lies I’ve told you, I won’t be offended if you don’t believe anything I just said. But… but believe this: You are my friend. Maybe my only one. And when shit goes down, I’m with you… to the end.”

            “I believe you,” she said softly. “And… And I’ve lied to you, too.”

            Deacon frowned. “Don’t try to make me feel better.”

            “I mean it.” She bit her lip. “My boy…”

            After returning from the relay, she had never spoken about her child except for one word when Deacon repeatedly pressed her for information: “dead.”

            “He’s with the Institute. He… He _is_ the Institute.”

            “Whisper, you’re not making any sense.”

            “They, the Institute, took him from the vault sixty years before they released me. I thought it was ten, remember?” She laughed, a harsh grating sound. “Nope. Sixty fucking years. They raised him. He grew up, rose through their ranks, became their leader. My Shaun… He’s an old man. And with every mission I run with you, I’m betraying him.”

            Shit. He had known something was off with that whole situation but that… He hadn’t expected that. When they had met, she had wanted to find her boy more than anything else in the world. She would have done anything to get him back. This… this complicated things. She was helping the Railroad for now but could she really turn against her son when push came to shove? “Whisper, I know this is hard, but with everything the Institute has done –”

            “I know what he’s done. I fucking know, ok? You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t hate myself a little more every time I see some poor synth he’s brutalized or have to comfort a family he’s torn apart or, or that goddamn massacre at Ticon?” Bringing up Ticonderoga seemed to knock all the air out of her and she hugged her knees tighter. “I’m responsible. For all of it. I made a monster.”

            “Hey, that’s not… Whisper, you gotta know that’s not true.”

            She shrugged, noncommittal. “I’ll make it right. I… I failed him but I can still help the people he’s hurt… You… you don’t hate me, right?”

            “What? Hell no!” _I love you_. “None of this is your fault. And I know I’m a liar but you’ve got to believe that.”

            They were quiet for a while, watching the stars together.

            Eventually, Whisper spoke. “Thank you for trusting me.” Her voice was quiet, like she wasn’t sure if she should be saying anything in the first place. “I won’t lie to you anymore.”

            “I… uh, I can’t make that promise,” Deacon replied with an awkward chuckle.

            “I know that, silly.”

            “Hey,” he wanted to pull her close, wrap her up in his arms, and kiss her all the sadness from her. He settled instead for patting her on the shoulder. “I’m not really a hugger so, um, good talk.”

            “Yeah, good talk.” She shivered.

            “Christ, its freezing out here,” Deacon grumbled. “Let’s go in.”

            “Ok.”

            They walked back together.

            “Hey, um, Dez knows, right?”

            Whisper shot him an incredulous look. “You think she’d let me be the double agent in the Institute if I didn’t? She’s not stupid. I couldn’t exactly be like ‘son? What son?’ when I relayed back.”

            “Ok, ok point taken.” Deacon had complete faith in his project Wanderer but Dez was a little more hard-nosed, a point she had gotten across loud and clear by threatening to blow Whisper’s head off the first time she walked through the front door. He chuckled at the memory as they ducked into the church.

\---

 

         After three weeks of uninterrupted undercover in the Institute, she returned without warning, in a flurry, her boots clattering against the stone steps. Dez looked up from her position at the rotunda, an eyebrow quirked. Whisper pushed past Drummer Boy and marched straight up to her. Deacon sat up and rested his forearms against his knees. This wasn’t like her. They called her Whisper for a reason: she always entered HQ quietly and hung around its shadowy corners until she found a convenient opening to slide inconspicuously into the conversation. Deacon usually helped with that. But now… This must be big.

         “The Brotherhood is coming. We need to leave.”

         Oh. Yeah, that was big. Dez’s eyes widened.

         “Whisper, what?”

         “Now. Right now. We’ve got to –”

         A sudden crash sounded from the escape tunnels, knocking a rain of dust from the ceiling.

         Whisper whirled around and scanned the room. Her face went white as her eyes met his. Her hand flew to the gun on her hip and she turned back towards the tunnels, her body angled just slightly so she was standing firmly in front of him. Dez was shouting orders, which Deacon ignored, opting instead to grab his gun join Whisper by the rotunda. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Glory go out the front entrance, lugging her minigun. There was a loud thud as two runners flipped a desk for additional cover and crouched behind it, pistols in hand. Drummer Boy grabbed Tinker Tom by the arm and pulled him into P.A.M’s room as the noise sounded again. One more blow and the wall would cave in. For a moment –just a moment –the room was silent. Then wall blasted inward in an explosion of dust and bricks and drywall and shrapnel.

         Deacon clapped a hand on Whisper’s shoulder and pulled her with him behind a pillar. He felt her breath hot on his shirt and then she was gone, ducking into the cloud of debris and letting loose a volley of shots. He heard a metallic screech as at least one round pierced enemy Power Armor. Swearing under his breath, he followed suit. He could make out four of them through the dissipating dust and took aim at the closest one. Six shots and his revolver was empty and the tin can was down. There was a whistling noise and he felt the breathless displacement of air as a hot laser blast narrowly missed his head. He could taste the dust and the ozone and the sharp cold bite of adrenaline.

         “Cherry bomb!” shouted Whisper and he saw her lob a grenade towards the newly formed chasm in the wall. The Brotherhood soldiers yelled as it landed at their feet before it disappeared in a burst of light and heat and the scream of tearing metal. Three down now; one had fallen back enough to escape the blast and strode forward, one arm now missing from his Power Armor. He aimed at Whisper, and fired. She ducked down behind the rotunda and the shot missed her and buried itself in the neck of one of the runners behind her, who had poked her head up from behind the desk to survey the scene. What was her name? Robin? Her partner wailed and he could smell the blood on the air, Railroad and Brotherhood alike. Deacon saw Whisper flinch, but she did not look back or even hesitate as she vaulted up onto the rotunda, slid towards the tin can, sending papers flying, and emptied her modded shotgun into his helmet. He fell with a choked gasp.

         Whisper launched herself from the rotunda in one smooth movement and started towards the limp bodies of fallen Brotherhood but Dez –where had she come from? –stepped into her path.

         “Glory.” Just one word. Whisper nodded, turned on her heel, and sprinted towards the door out of HQ. “Deacon.” Dez beckoned. He joined her at the hole in the wall. Her arm was bleeding but she made no move to staunch the flow. Her fingers clutched her pistol tightly. She motioned towards the tunnel with her head and he entered with her on his heels.

         Most of the four were dead but one was still moving. The lightly armored one he had taken down. He was young, his face streaked with blood. Deacon cocked his gun.

         “Ad –ad –” the boy gasped and then his brains splattered against the dirty stones.

         Dez scanned the tunnel, chewing her lip.

         “Looks like that’s it but check the tunnel anyways,” she said before retreating into HQ for some damage control. A distant crack of gunfire echoed through the air, but it came from behind him, not in front. Whisper was there, in the front tunnels going up towards the church. He tried not to think about it.

         Deacon gave the tunnels a cursory survey but, as suspected, there were no more Brotherhood. This should have been better defended. If it hadn’t been for Ticon… if they hadn’t been spread so thin…

         Well, their luck hadn’t run totally dry: if it hadn’t been for Whisper, they would all be dead right now. Whisper… He heard the echo of gunfire once more and took off sprinting back through the tunnel, through HQ, and out the door.

         Both the spotlights were shattered and he heard the glass crunch under his boots as he skirted around another dead Brotherhood soldier. In the dark, he rounded the corner and then stopped. The coded entrance in the wall had been forced open, the wires torn out, and across from him, slumped against the wall was Glory. Whisper crouched before her, her hands pressed against the dark stain spreading against Glory’s coat, the light from her Pipboy coloring everything a sickly green. Whisper bowed her head and Glory whispered something to her. And then she went limp.

         “Glory.” Whisper’s voice cracked. “Glory.” The muzzle of Glory’s minigun still glowed by her side, even as the hands that had held it went still.

         “Whisper?” The tunnel’s echo spit the word back at him and he heard the hoarseness in his voice. Whisper’s shoulders heaved a deep breath. Then she rose to her feet. She did not look at him.

         “Take… stay with her,” she said through gritted teeth. Her knuckles were white on the stock of her shotgun. “One ran.” And she was gone, around the corner, her footsteps drowning out the faint thomp thomp thomp of a coward in Power Armor running from the fight.

         He looked towards Glory and looked away. He didn’t want to see her like that. He close his eyes and he could still hear her terse laugh, feel her elbow in his side, see the glimmer of her curiously belligerent form of friendly affection glinting in her dark eyes. But he forced his eyes open and made himself look anyways. Kneeling beside her, he pulled a rag from his back pocket and wiped a smear of blood from her cheek. Her eyes were glazed, staring blankly at the floor. Deacon swallowed hard, gently pressed his fingertips to her eyelids, and closed them.

         “Oh.”

         Deacon stiffened –he hadn’t heard her come up behind him –and turned toward her. Desdemona stood in the shadows of the doorway. Her shoulders slumped.

         “Oh,” she repeated.

         Deacon pushed his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose and stood.

         “Whisper went after them. I’ll get some people to carry her back inside.” And he stood, pushed past her, and reentered HQ. By the time he and Drummer Boy laid Glory out on the rotunda, he had reassumed his usual casual demeanor, even if his heart was still hammering in his chest. His breathing calmed, though, when Whisper and Dez came back through the door. Whisper held her hands in tight fists. Deacon wondered if she was trying to keep them from shaking. They had lost two: Glory and the runner (Robin) whose partner was still holding her and refusing to let her go. Three more weren’t expected to make it through the night, despite Carrington’s continued efforts.

         Whisper went straight to his side, but did not say anything or even look at him. Still, she stood close, her arm nearly brushing against him. Dez took her usual place at the head of the rotunda, and gazed down at Glory’s body prostrate before her, her expression stony and unreadable even to Deacon, who had always prided himself on the ease with which he read people. She looked up and surveyed the room, taking in the ragtag group of survivors: Whisper, Drummer, Deacon, Carrington, Tom, Fixer, and Bullseye. Seven agents left in HQ. They had maybe sixteen more spread across the surviving safe houses.

         “They were good agents.” Desdemona’s voice was so crisp and business-like that he almost missed the way it trembled oh so slightly. “Some of the best. Glory… she was… she had so much heart. Our angel of death.” The hint of a sad smile flashed across her lips and her brow furrowed. She cleared her throat. “Whisper. You were with her at the end. Do you have any words you want to say?”

         Whisper blanched. All eyes turned to her.

         “Um, yeah, I was with her.”

         Dez shouldn’t have asked this of her. They always asked too much of Whisper. He pretended like he didn’t see the dark circles under her eyes but he knew the toll her work took on her. Between the deepcover assignments in the Institute and the extra heavy work she had been picking up since Ticon went dark, he was surprised she hadn’t broken. Yet.

         “I –She…” Whisper swallowed and twisted a hand through her hair. She took a shaky breath.

         “Ok,” Dez said quietly. She opened her mouth but before she could say anything, Whisper began to sing.

         “ _Barefoot, she smiled, leapt without looking, and tumbled into the Seine. The water was freezing –she spent a month sneezing –but said she would do it again._ ”

         Her voice was so soft, they could barely make out the words, but it was sweet. Slowly, her fists uncurled.

         “ _Here’s to the ones who dream, foolish as they may seem. Here’s to the hearts that ache. Here’s to the mess we make_.”

         Her song grew stronger and Deacon watched as the fear melted away from her expression. It was replaced with something unexplainable. Something wistful and determined and hopeful and so, so sad. She sang for Glory. She sang for Robin and High Rise and all of the agents they had resigned to the earth. She sang for Ticonderoga and the Switchboard and every synth that lived and died without ever tasting the hard, exhilarating tang of freedom. She sang for the boy she would never hold again. She sang for monster he had become. She sang for the dead and for the pitiable survivors. The song grew and echoed and reverberated through him. She sang for him and she sang for herself.

         “ _Here’s to the fools who dream_ ,” Her voice was clear and strong and sweeter than anything he had ever heard, “ _crazy as we may seem. Here’s to the hearts that break_.” She clasped her hands together and held them tight to her chest. “ _Here’s to the mess we make_.” And her voice shuddered to a stop.

         The sudden silence was deafening. Whisper opened her eyes without seeming to really see any of them, took a deep breath, and continued, subdued but unbroken.

         “ _Smiling through it, she said she’d do it again_.”

         She fell silent but refused to step back into the shadows. Deacon placed a hand on her shoulder and she did not flinch. From across the room came a quiet sob. Drummer Boy was crying. So was Bullseye and, hell, so was Dez.

         “They were some of the best. And their sacrifice will _not_ be in vain,” Dez said with finality. Then she nodded to Carrington and Fixer. They moved towards the rotunda and Deacon turned away. He didn’t need to see them put her in the ground. Whisper had already retreated to the annex.

         He found her sitting cross-legged on a dirty mattress disassembling and reassembling the scope on her rifle. He sat next to her.

         “You know, if you had joined up just a little earlier, I totally could have gotten the Railroad theater troupe off the ground. I mean, with me doing costumes, Tinker’s special effects, and your performing chops –”

         “She was scared.” Whisper’s words were quiet but they cut through his like a knife. “She said, ‘shouldn’t there be a light?’” Whisper shook her head so her hair fell between them and he could not see her face. “Shouldn’t there be a –Fuck, Deacon. I can’t –I can’t –” Her shoulders were shaking. Deacon inhaled sharply and blinked away the wetness in his eyes before scooting closer to her, stopping short of actually touching her. It was an offer, not a request. She accepted, rested her head on his shoulder, and cried.

         Drummer Boy found them some time later, after Whisper’s face had dried.

         “Dez wants you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deacon's "If I were not myself" quote is from Tolstoy's "War and Peace."  
> Whisper's song is "Audition" from "La La Land."


	3. Blue

       “I miss Glory too, Dez, but this…” Whisper shook her head.  
       This is suicide, thought Deacon. Attack the Prydwen? With three agents? Deacon was not fond of being surrounded by enemy combatants. He was even less fond of being surrounded by enemy combatants two hundred feet in the air.  
       “This isn’t about that. Think about it,” Dez implored. “We don’t have time to relocate HQ and if we leave the Brotherhood to their own devices, they’ll just send another wave after us. We won’t stand a chance. But if we hit them back now, we’ll catch them off-guard.”  
       Whisper frowned. It made sense.  
       “And we can just flap our arms and fly up to the Prydwen. Good thinking, boss,” Deacon said. Dez crossed her arms. Then Whisper spoke:  
       “I know where we can get a Vertibird.”

\---

       It was late afternoon when they hit Cambridge. The base was manned by a skeleton crew and once Deacon took out the radio receptors, Whisper made short work of them. Tom, Deacon, and Whisper scavenged Brotherhood jumpsuits from the supply closet before heading up to the roof.  
       “Aw, man, look at that,” Tinker Tom yelled. He gave a wolf whistle. “She’s a beauty.” He headed over to the Vertibird and climbed into the front seat. Deacon swallowed hard and tried to ignore the fact that they would soon be trusting their lives to that hunk of metal.  
       “We’re probably going to die up there,” Whisper said, her face tilted up towards the black silhouette of the Prydwen.  
       “Yeah, probably.”  
       “Then I should tell you that I love you.”  
       Deacon froze. She loved him? She loved him?  
       “You don’t have to say anything,” she said as if disinterested in the whole exchange and if not for the slight flush that crept across her cheeks, he could almost have believed that.  
       She strode towards the Vertibird. He wanted to say I love you too and please, please let me hold you and I swear I’ll never let go and we can’t do this and I’m broken and I wish I wasn’t. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her. He wanted to bury his face in her hair. But he knew who he was. She deserved better. Fuck, she didn’t even know his real name.  
       “Come on, man, let’s go,” shouted Tom and Deacon squared his shoulders and followed his friends.

\---

       How they had managed to pass as Brotherhood, Deacon had no idea. Whisper had taken the lead on that one. Since she had for a brief period of time been an initiate it made sense to send her ahead to do the dirty work while Deacon and Tom made sure their escape route was clear. She knew the lingo and it was easier for one person to slip by unnoticed than two.  
       Still, the waiting was agony. Deacon stood on the deck of the Prydwen trying his hardest not to look down. The spindly gangway that served as the Vertibird docking station did not seem sturdy enough for something so high in the air. Especially since Whisper was at that moment in the process of attaching several pounds of explosives to the engine of this flying death trap.  
       Deacon took a deep breath. Inside the Vertibird, Tom fiddled with the controls. Hopefully that meant that the ride back down would be smoother than the way up.  
       They had agreed on a hard fifteen-minute time limit. If Whisper wasn’t back by then, Tom and Deacon were supposed to leave without her. Deacon wondered if he could do that.  
       It was ten minutes now. Two scribes nodded as they walked passed him.  
       “Ad Victorium, brothers,” Deacon responded in a stiff, humorless voice. Not a bad impression. He glanced to the heavy metal door at the top of the stairs at end of the walkway. They hadn’t caught her. They would have raised the alarm.  
       Five minutes now. Inside the Vertibird, Tom was talking quietly to himself. If they stayed much longer, they would begin to attract attention. She would make it back. She had to.  
       Then, from the other side of the door came a resounding crash. Deacon straightened up and Tom poked his head out of the window.  
       “What –”  
       The crackling zap of laser shots drown out the rest of his sentence. The door flew open and Whisper came sprinting down the gangway. There was blood on her face and Deacon’s heart stopped for a second before he realized it wasn’t hers. She ran with an awkward sideways shuffle as she fired round after round over her shoulder at the swarm of Brotherhood soldiers the pursued her. Deacon darted a few yards up the gangway and gave her cover.  
       “Tom, get the bird ready now!” He shouted.  
       Shit, there were a lot of them. The narrow doorway slowed them down some but they kept coming.  
       “Come on. Come on.” He heard Tom yelling from the cockpit as he jostled with the controls. “It takes a second to warm up!”  
       Whisper was by Deacon’s side now. “What?” she screamed.  
       “Just hold them off a little while longer!”  
       “Duck,” shouted Deacon and he pushed her head down just in time. She landed on her knees, one arm wrapped around his leg for balance.  
       Whisper gasped, the acrid electricity of the blast lingering in the air. They were bringing out the big guns now. She looked up and saw a door. There was another door on the other end of the platform. And in front of it there was a knight with a rifle pointed at Deacon’s back.  
       “No!” she shouted.  
       Deacon turned in time to see the barrel of the gun flash but not quick enough, he knew, to move out of its way. And then she was there, in front of him, her shotgun blasting, and the soldier crumpled onto the walkway and Whisper fell back heavy against him and he felt her weight and the heat in his arms and he thought, she just stumbled, she’s fine, she only stumbled, but there was something wet on his hands and he felt her nails dig into his forearms even through the nylon monstrosity the Brotherhood called a jumpsuit and then he was running, dragging her along, back to the Vertibird where Tom was waving frantically. They had to still be shooting at them, but Deacon didn’t hear it. He didn’t hear anything but the deafening whoosh of his thumping pulse in his ears.  
       Tom helped him hoist her up into the cabin before sliding into the pilot’s seat and flipping some switches, mumbling to himself under his breath. Deacon fumbled under one of the seats and pulled forth a first aid kit. Smart, keeping one on each bird for emergencies, he thought fleetingly, as he unlatched the lid and began to root through its contents. He could hear Whisper whining softly and he tried to ignore it. He nabbed a stimpack and turned back to her, where she lay slumped against the back wall of the Vertibird, and –shit, she looked bad. Her brow was drenched with sweat, her eyes screwed shut, and just below her sternum, the suit and the skin underneath were… melted, seared. There were no other words for it. The laser had carved a red crater in her abdomen and he could see the blistered flesh twitch with each breath she heaved.  
       “Ok, ok, I got this. I got you. Dr. Deacon to the rescue,” he whispered as he jammed the stimpack into her thigh. She didn’t smile. The vertibird detached from the dock and fell, whistling through the air, and Deacon felt his stomach drop, before it righted itself and began to fly. Whisper groaned and kicked her feet against the chair in front of her. There had to be some Med-X somewhere in the kit. Something for the pain. The fabric of her suit was darkening rapidly, the orange and red mingling together like the world’s shittiest sunset. He put a hand to her shoulder –to steady her, to comfort her, to feel like he was doing something –as he pulled another syringe from the kit. He looked up in time to see her eyes widen, focused on something over his shoulder. In time for her to scream, “Deacon, look –“ And that was all they had time for before the missile exploded into the side of the Vertibird.  
       The world turn sideways as the airship careened wildly. Tom was shouting. Whisper shrieked something Deacon could not make out. Everything was spinning and he could not tell which way was up and which was down and where he fit in that equation, although he could make some educated guesses as to the latter. The bird jolted and he looked up. He met Whisper’s wide, frightened eyes and his mouth went dry and then she was falling backwards towards the hard slate blue of the water that filled up the view bird’s open side. Before he could reach out a hand, she was gone.  
       They rolled again and he tried to scream her name but the nose of the vertibird made contact with the sand and the impact ripped the air from his lungs and set every molecule of his body vibrating. Black spots bloomed across his vision between rolling flashes of beach and metal and sky and he knew that he had been thrown.  
       The sand scraped at his skin as he rolled to a stop some yards from the wreckage. The landing punched the air from his lungs and he lay immobile for a moment as his body tried to catch up with what just happened. Where was Whisper? That thought hauled him to his feet and then the sky above him erupted.

\---

       When he found her, she looked like she had managed to pull herself halfway out of the surf before collapsing face down in the sand. Even though it was dusk, Deacon could see clearly by the light of the Prydwen, which burned above them like a second sun. The water around her was a muddy pink and her body was… broken.  
       He pulled her away from the waves, scooting backwards over the sand, and laid her out.  
       “D-Deacon…” she gasped.  
       She shouldn’t be talking. She needed to rest.  
       Deacon forced a smile. “That’s the name, bud. Don’t wear it out.”  
       She was hurt badly and he had nothing to give her. Her right leg bent at the wrong angle and he could see a gristly fragment of bone poking through the flesh. And he had nothing to give her. Her right shoulder was definitely dislocated. And he had nothing to give her. Her chest was an open cavity, her lips were turning blue, and he had nothing to give her. Not a stimpack, not med-X, not even some fucking jet or buffout.  
       She lay gasping on the sand like a fish that had been dragged up from the sea, looking at him as if he could save her. He couldn’t save anybody. He was a fool to think he could love her and get away with it. Sooner or later, everything and everyone he loved ended up just like this.  
       “Please.” Her voice was very small. Her fingers reached up and twisted at his collar.  
       “Anything.”  
       “I’ve never seen your eyes.”  
       He swallowed hard before pulling off his sunglasses with shaking hands and tossing them aside. He met her naked gaze.  
       Oh, she thought. Blue. The color was deep and soft and flecked through with hints of green and even hazel around the edges. She felt like she could drown in them.  
       “Beautiful,” she breathed. Something flickered in their depths and she knew then why he always wore the glasses. He might be an expert actor but his eyes held no secrets. He broke her gaze with a mirthless laugh.  
       “Guess you hit your head on the way down, too.” He forced a light tone and prayed that she would not see the way his eyes watered.  
       Whisper opened her mouth to reply but only a choked gasp came out. Her brow furrowed and she coughed and a thin spray of red coated her lips. She tried to take another breath but that only made her cough harder. A hot metallic wetness forced its way up into her mouth and she could feel the strange jagged sense of something terribly wrong deep in her chest and a wave of panic crashed over her. Her head lolled to the side. Deacon felt his blood run cold. He pulled her close to him and propped her up against his knees, his arms tight around her shoulders, as he suppressed a strangled sob.  
       “Just breathe. Just –” And it was as if she was listening to him because her breathing evened out some. It was still harsh but he could no longer hear the dark gurgle of blood in the back of her throat. He buried his nose in her hair and breathed in the soft scent of her shampoo. Her breath hitched and she brought a hand up to rest against the back of his neck.  
       “It’s going to be ok,” he told her. “I know it looks bad right now, but you know Dez. I’ll bet she got a back-up team together the second we were out the door.”  
       A lie. They were too beaten down for that. This had been a last ditch suicide mission and Whisper knew it.  
       “She’s a cautious woman. That’s what makes her a good Alpha. They’ll be here any minute, you’ll see, and they’ll fix you right up. Carrington’s an asshole but he knows what he’s doing.”  
       Carrington had his hands full back at HQ.  
       “This, this isn’t as bad as it looks. It will take more than this to break up the Death Bunnies.”  
       Whisper had gone quiet, save for the rasping breaths that puffed warm against his shoulder.  
       “And when the Institute hears about this, they’ll up and surrender. Even they aren’t insane enough to go up against the daring duo that took out the Prydwen. Imagine that: all those synths, everything we’ve worked for, all because of you.”  
       He was crying in earnest now and there was nothing he could do to hide it. His eyes burned and he couldn’t seem to get enough air but he had to keep talking.  
       “And then it’ll be over. It’ll all be over, Whisper, and you won’t have to fight anymore. We can run away. Anywhere you like. I’ll build us a little house somewhere safe. I can go back to farming and we won’t have to fight anymore. A cozy little house and, and we’ll fill it up with children and, and, and,”  
       There was silence.  
       “Just stay with me, Whisper. Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t –Don’t –Breathe, Whisper. Fucking breathe! Please!”  
       A crackle split the air and his vision disappeared in an explosion of clinical blue light. He felt every hair on his body stand on end as the electricity buzzed. It was over before he could comprehend what was happening and when the aftershocks of the light faded from his eyes his arms were empty.  
He looked around dumbly, as if maybe she had slipped out of his grasp and wandered down the shore. His empty hands twitched. The blood that coated them was growing sticky and cold in the brisk breeze that came off the water. His empty arms shook as if her absence was heavier than the weight of her had been. The light faded as the sea swallowed up the last of the Prydwen’s flaming wreckage.  
       Gone.


	4. If I Were Free

 

           Pain. Searing, burning, a great heavy molten piece of lead sinking through her abdomen, dripping into her chest cavity. Her extremities felt numb but when she tried to curl her toes, her right leg screamed in protest, sending lightning shocks up and down her ligaments. She tried to screech. She tried to open her eyes. Somewhere very far away, there was a faint beeping and a flurry of voices.

           “…shouldn’t be awake yet…”  
            “…hold…”

           “Mother?”

           Then there was nothing.

 

\---

 

           He entered HQ with his head down, wearing a fresh pair of sunglasses he had stashed outside. The conversation stopped. Dez, Carrington, PAM, and Tinker Tom were huddled over by Carrington’s station. It looked like Carrington was patching Tom up while Dez grilled him on the mission details. Well, the important part should be obvious: anybody with eyes could see that the Prydwyn was no longer occupying Commonwealth airspace.

           “Oh man! Thank god!” Tom exclaimed. “Thought you’d bitten the dust.”

           Deacon did not respond. He made for the chalkboard.

           “Deacon?” Dez called.

           Deacon picked up the chalk. He rolled it between his fingers. Then he crossed out Whisper’s name and dropped the chalk to the ground. Now there was only him. Every other name in the column had a dash through it. Tommy. Glory. Whisper.

           He turned to the group, making an effort to smooth his features and appear unperturbed.

           “So, what’s next?” He cracked a grin that he hoped was easy-going. The agents just stared at him. “Hey, I know you’ve got jobs for me to do. You’ve always got jobs for me to do. Come on, Dez. What’s our next move, boss?”

           “Why don’t you come over here and let Carrington have a look at you.” Dez spoke with carefully parsed syllables.

           “What? Me? I’m right as rain? Tossed out of the Vertibird with barely a scratch. Good old Deacon, narrowly escaping death once again.”

           “Deacon, you’re covered in blood.”

           He paused at that and looked down. Yep, he was covered in blood. He laughed.

           “This? You really fell for this? Oh, Dez. It’s Nukacola and mashed tato. It’s the quickest way to get through the raiders in the Commons. Just flop on the ground when you hear someone coming and no one will bother you. Why waste bullets on a corpse, right?”

           Carrington was frowning at him. Tinker Tom looked vaguely frightened.

           “Guys. It’s not my blood. It’s certainly not Whisper’s blood.” He laughed again. “Where did that come from? Of course, it’s not Whisper’s blood. It’s not like she bled out in my arms.” God, why couldn’t he stop talking? “She definitely didn’t take a bullet for me. She definitely didn’t die cold and in pain and –”

           Dez interrupted him by grabbing his arm and pulling him into P.A.M.’s room. He became vaguely aware that he was shaking. She pushed him down into the chair in front of the terminal.

           “Take a deep breath.”

           “Yes, mommy.”

           She didn’t flinch.

           “Come back to us,” she said softly. “We can’t afford to lose you too.”

           They sat in silence for a while, until he regained some semblance of calm.

           “I know she meant a lot to you.”

           His first instinct was to lie and deny it. He stayed quiet instead, out of respect for her. She had died for him. She had died for him and he just couldn’t pretend he didn’t care.

           “We’ll send some people to retrieve her body. We’ll bring her home.”

           They couldn’t spare the manpower but he appreciated the kindness of her gesture all the same.

           He shook his head. “They took her.”

           “They?”

           “The Institute.”

           Dez grabbed his chin and lifted his face so that he was looking her in the eye.

           “I know this is hard but if you are lying to me –”

           “I’m not.”

           She narrowed her eyes, then released her grip on his chin. She rocked back on her heels and sighed thinking.

           “You’re sure she was –”

           “Yes. She –she was –I’m sure.”

           Dez looked at him and he could see the pity in her eyes and he hated it.

           “Get some rest.”

 

\---

 

           When Whisper awoke for the second time, she found herself in a bed with clean sheets breathing in air that smelled vaguely of disinfectant rather than smoke and decay. That’s how she knew she was in trouble.

           She opened her eyes. She was in the Institute sick bay. But… she hadn’t relayed back. Whisper closed her eyes again and tried to remember what had happened: the beach, the blood in the sand, the piercing blue of Deacon’s eyes. Deacon! If she was here, what had happened to Deacon? Whisper’s eyes flew open again. She had to get out of here.

           She went slow, testing each of her limbs to make sure they were still in one piece. Some worked better than others. Her right leg, for example, stuck out stiffly in a brace. Trying to move it hurt, but not as much as it should. She shook her head. She was definitely on something. Pushing the thought aside, she struggled into a sitting position, gasping as a fresh bolt of pain ripped through her chest.

           “It would be better if you took things slow for now.” The voice came from behind her. An old man in a white coat stepped forward and settled into the chair beside the bed. “It’s good to see you awake.”

           “How long have I been out?”

           “Three days.”

           Whisper flopped back onto the bed with a groan.

           “The courser chip in your Pipboy also taps into the device’s vitals monitor. If your vitals ever drop past a certain threshold, the chip automatically teleports you back here. Still, you got very lucky.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “We almost lost you.”

           “Well… thanks.” She wasn’t sure what to say.

           “How soon can I go back?”

           “To the surface?”

           “Yep.”

           “Come now, Mother. Injuries aside –and make no mistake, those are quite severe –why would you want to go back to that wasteland?”

           “Got stuff to do,” she muttered, looking at him through slitted eyelids.

           “You do have some… unfinished business on the surface,” Shaun said. “I seem to recall that you were tasked with eliminating the Railroad.”

           “I’m working on it.”

           “And that’s why when you heard that the Brotherhood was about to make your job much easier, you rushed to intervene.”

           Shaun began to cough hoarsely. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his mouth.

           Whisper wished he had waited a bit to broach this topic. It was hard to come up with a believable lie with the burning ache in her chest and the faint buzz of narcotics in her head.

           “I’ve got a reason for that.”

           “I’m sure.”

           She forced her eyes all the way open so she could meet his gaze. That was how you made it convincing. That’s what Deacon told her, anyway.

           “You asked me to get rid of the Railroad and the Brotherhood. I let the former take a hard hit and then used them to take out the latter. I couldn’t destroy the Prydwyn all by myself. As for the Railroad: their organization is in tatters; hardly any fighters left alive. It’ll be easy to finish them off. Two birds with one stone, really.”

           “If you needed assistance with the Brotherhood, you could have requisitioned back-up. You have the entirety of the Institute at your disposal.”

           “The Commonwealth already doesn’t trust us. How would it look if we came out guns blazing just weeks after our ‘come in peace’ radio broadcast? Better to make it look like two surface factions fought to the death. We weren’t even involved.” She lowered her voice on that last sentence, adopting what she hoped was an almost playful conspiratorial tone.

           Shaun smiled. It did not quite reach his eyes. Whisper looked at him then, really looked at him, and saw the toll his illness was taking. He had lost weight in the short time in which they had been reunited. His face was gaunt, his cheekbones sharp, and there were dark crescents beneath his eyes.

           “Clever.”

           She let her eyes slip closed again.

           “Well, you didn’t get your brains from your father.”

           Shaun chuckled at that, a real chuckle, but something sad lurked underneath. He coughed again.

           “I’ll leave you to rest.”

           She listened to his footsteps retreat and heard the door slide open and shut again. What was she going to do?

           “Ma’am.”

           Whisper started.

           “Z1. I didn’t see you. God, how long have you been standing there?”

           He was holding a broom and sweeping the floor, his back to her.

           “He suspects.”

           Whisper bit her lip. So it was that obvious. “I know.”

           “We are ready.”

           Whisper blinked. “Now?”

           Z1 moved in a slow circle around the bed, sweeping.

           “Now.”

           “We –we’re not…” Whisper fumbled for the words. “We’re not ready. On our end.” _I’m not ready_ , she thought. _I’m not ready to tell him goodbye yet_. She bit her lip. “The Brotherhood hit us hard. We really have lost too many of our fighters.”

           “It has to be now.”

           “Look at me. I can’t fight like this,” Whisper had to make a concentrated effort to keep her voice down. “Maybe… maybe in a week but –”

           Z1 stopped sweeping. “Ma’am, if he suspects, we don’t have a week. He will strip you of your privileges, he will hold you here, and he will track down your friends and he will slaughter them.”

           He was right. Whisper stared down at her hands, ruddy and work worn against the crisp white sheets.

           “Ma’am?”

           “Ok.” Her voice was little more than a squeak. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Ok.”

           “Meet me in the relay room in three hours,” he said and then he was gone.

           Whisper lay back in bed, closed her eyes, and took some deep breaths. Just a few minutes. A few minutes of calm before everything came crashing down around her. She deserved that much. Then, she pulled herself out of bed to ready herself for the fight ahead.

 

\---

 

           He didn’t remember what he had gone into her locker to get. He sat beside the small metal container in that dingy cranny in the back escape tunnel and turned the book over in his hands. _War and Peace_. The scrap of paper that served as her bookmark was tucked about forty pages from the end. He ran a finger along its spine and imagined her doing the same. For a moment, it almost seemed as though he could reach out and touch her through the pages. But he couldn’t and she would never finish those last forty pages.

           He began to cry hot angry tears. Why her?

           It should have been him. She was sweet and clever and _good_. She was good even in this godforsaken wasteland.

           A commotion in HQ’s main room tore him from his thoughts.

           “Call in whoever you can. Get a message to Goodneighbor’s watch and any Minutemen you can get a hold of.”

           “Tom, see what you can scrounge up in terms of –“

           “You mean non-agents? People who aren’t even tourists? Dez –“

           “I got four people from Mercer headed –“

           “We need the manpower. We don’t have time –“

           “Use her name if you have to but –“

           “Use her name for what?” Deacon interjected. He approached the rotunda where Dez stood talking to Drummer Boy in the midst of a flurry of agents.

           Dez glanced his way before returning to her conversation with Drummer Boy.

           “What? You didn’t hear?” Tom shouldered past him and deposited an armful of modded armor on the rotunda. “We’re doing it. The Institute. The big bad in the Commonwealth.” Several agents reached around Deacon to snag bits of armor from the table.

           “Yeah, message came in about five minutes ago." Tom continued. "From Patriot. Or… I think it was Patriot. Anyways, Mission Synth Rebellion is a go. Hey, Fixer, don’t touch that!” Tom sped off back towards his terminal.

           Dez grabbed Deacon by the elbow. “We have three hours,” she told him. “Then they’ll transport anyone in HQ. Call in any contacts you have. We need all hands on deck”

 

\---

 

           He felt the electricity crackle over his skin and then the sensation of weightlessness, nauseating, unnatural, and then it was over. He blinked and he was somewhere new. His ragtag crew stood out in harsh juxtaposition to the pristine white walls and the sleek terminal consoles. Behind the console was a man he didn’t recognize in a white and tan jumpsuit. And next to him…

           Next to him, looking tired and bruised and anxious but alive –she was alive –stood Whisper.

            A shock of relief flooded his body. She was alive. Without thinking, he moved forward but Dez held out her arm to block him.

            “Whisper.”

            “Hey,” she replied, her voice scratchy.

            “Our intel says that you were killed in action.”

            Whisper smirked. “Well… the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

            Yeah, it was her, alright. Dez was being cautious, making sure she wasn’t a synth replacement, but Deacon knew. She was his Whisper.

            Dez surveyed the scene with pursed lips.

            “What is the radiation situation down here? Do you have a Geiger Counter?”

            “ ‘S in the shop… It’s me, Dez.”

            Dez’s posture relaxed and she lowered her arm.

            “That’s a relief,” she said. “Alright, teams…”

            Deacon didn’t hear the rest. His eyes lingered on Whisper, drinking in each nod, each breath, each little shred of proof that told him that, yes, she was really here.

            When the teams broke into formation, she side stepped the console and hurried to him. Stopping inches from him, she looked up at him like he was the sun and she had been underground for far longer than three days.

            “I was worried,” she said softly.

            This was too much, too intimate, too public. He wanted to make a joke or tell a lie or something to lighten the tone of the conversation. But he didn’t.

            “Me too,” he said.

            “You’re ok?” she asked, scanning him for any injury she might have missed before.

            “Just dandy, pal.” He was better than dandy. He was fucking fantastic. He hadn’t felt this good in a long time. “I’m honestly more worried about you. You took quite the hit back there.”

            “I’m fine. More or less.” An alarm sounded somewhere and she tensed, jerking her head towards the sound. “We have to go.”

            If he had been thinking, he would have noticed it then: the hard, blank, wild look in her eyes, the angry red line where her gums met her teeth, the telltale signs of recent Psycho use. Instead, his thumping heart drowned out any and all logic and his blood sang with the realization that she was alive.

 

            ---

 

            She kept a stash of chems in her locker in the Institute. She had picked them up in Libertalia when she and the courser raided the place. She had never planned to take them. She had planned to sell them in Diamond City when she got the chance.

            The world swam around her in lazy circles. Whatever she had shot up must have been laced with Jet. With the laser blasts sparkling like shooting stars, or Christmas lights, she could almost forget their deadly purpose. She felt her fingernails scrape against the stock of her gun and couldn’t tell if she loved the feeling or hated it. Every nerve in her body felt electrified. Her teeth chattered.

            She needed it. She needed to stay fast and alert and unthinking. There was a sound behind her. It seemed to echo in the time she took to turn and raise her gun. Then, Allie Filmore was stumbling backwards, her blonde hair spun out in a halo around her face. Whisper had helped her with a project while she was still pretending to work for the Institute. Allie Filmore, so professional, so clinical. The shocked expression on her face was comical. Whisper wanted to laugh until she screamed. The smell of ozone and burning hair filled her nostrils. Why had she snuck up on her? Why had she tried to fight back? She had a son.

            Hyperventilating, Whisper ducked through a doorway, and, finding herself in an empty laboratory, reached into her pocket and pulled out a bottle of pills. It had the word “Calmex” scrawled across the side in shaky black marker. She gave the room a brief glance and, ascertaining that she was alone –that he couldn’t see her –she popped the lid and swallowed four of them dry. “Calmex.” Calm. She needed to be calm. She –they stuck in her throat. They burned. She pushed off the wall, stalked through the doorway, and rejoined the battle, stepping over Allie on her way to the generator room.

 

            ---

 

            He knew he had found her when he heard her singing. It was low and soft and sent a sharp spike of relief bursting through him.

            “That sounds familiar.”

            “I used to sing it to you. Rock you until you fell asleep.”

            The door muffled the voices: a man and a woman. He paused, his hand on the latch.

            “I wouldn’t remember that. Infants don’t form memories.”

            “I know.” She sounded so sad.

            He slid the door open. She was sitting in a chair bent over some fancy kind of bed. She had begun to hum again, both hands clasped over one of his, thumb gently stroking the thin veiny skin. The man looked up and glared at Deacon. He glared at him with Whisper’s eyes.

            “Who are you?”

            Whisper started. Deacon leaned nonchalant against the doorframe.

            “Who? Me? No one important, really.”

            She had turned to look at him now, eyes red. “Deacon.” Her voice was heavy with exhaustion.

            “Just, FYI, this place is about to blow. You know that right? Those packages you stuck onto the generator? Those were bombs. Did Dez tell you they were repackaged FancyLads? That woman.”

            “I’m staying.”

            “No, you’re not.”

            “I am.” She squeezed the man’s hand.

            “Mother.”

            Whisper turned back to the man and bent her head so that she was whispering in his ear but Deacon heard anyways. “I was with you when you came into this world. I will be with you when you leave.”

            The man gave a strangled gasp and began to cry. Whisper rested her head on his shoulder and Deacon felt… uncomfortable. Out of place. Like he was intruding on a private moment, which he sort of was. He cleared his throat.

            “Whisper. We need to leave.”

            She lifted her head to look at him.

            “Go,” she said.

            Deacon sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. They didn’t have much time. What could he say to her to get her to come with him? What story could he invent? What lie could he tell her?

            “Could I have a real goodbye, at least?” he asked and held out his arms.

            She gave her best approximation of a smile and stood, smoothing out the wrinkles in her burnt, bloodied Institute jumpsuit.

            She took in his face, as if trying to commit every detail to memory.

“Goodbye.”

Then she stepped forward and melted into his arms. He clung tightly to her trembling frame. She was warm and soft and right there, so alive against him.

            “I’m sorry,” she murmured into his chest.

            He closed his eyes and let himself savor the feeling.

            “I’m sorry, too.” His arms tightened around her. She loosened her grip but he held her too tightly for her to pull away.

            “Deacon? Deacon!”

            In one quick motion, he swept her off her feet and threw her over his shoulder.

            “Put me down!”

            “Let her go!” The man shouted with a quavering voice that soon dissolved into a deep hacking cough.

            “No! Deacon! Put me down! Put me –No!”

            Deacon kicked the door open and ran down the hall.

            “Shaun! SHAUN! NO!”

            Whisper kicked and hit at him as he flew down the white spiral stairs. Her blows were weak –too weak to be coming from her. Deacon ignored the thought and kept running. Whisper sunk her teeth into his shoulder blade. He hissed with pain. They were almost to the relay room. The dead littered the hall: synth and human, Railroad and Institute. Sprawled across the floor near the door was the bruised and bloodied form of a child. When Whisper saw him, she began to scream. Deacon made himself deaf to the noise. There was nothing they could do. Whoever he was, the boy was dead.

            The relay room was deserted but the transport pad was still alive with electric blue energy. With her slung over his shoulders, he leapt into the light.

            As soon as they rematerialized, Whisper kicked him hard and struggled free of his grasp. They were amidst a small crowd somewhere dark. A rooftop, he realized. They were overlooking the ruins of the CIT. Whisper ran towards the edge of the roof. She made two strides before a white stinging blinding heat broke upon all of their faces. The deep roar followed seconds later, reverberating through their bones and echoing in the empty spaces within. Deacon clapped both hands over his ears. The light dimmed and in its place was a cloud of fire and debris. The roar turned to a dull crackling, punctuated by sharp thunderclaps as hunks of rock and brick returned to the earth.

            Whisper’s face went blank, as if the blast had wiped all expression from it. She blinked once and turned stiffly from the ruin. Her lips were stained red and bright spots of color bloomed high on her cheeks.

            He reached for her. “Whisper?”

            “Don’t fucking touch me.” She shoved his hand away and walked past him with unsteady steps. Then she stumbled and fell to her knees.

            He knelt beside her and placed a hand on her back. She was shaking. No, she was seizing. She collapsed onto the rooftop, twitching.

            “Carrington?!”

            To his credit, the man was there before the word had time to echo through the ruins. He pressed two fingers to her neck and frowned. Then he pulled a flashlight from his coat pocket, forced open her eyelids, and shone the light into her white rolling eyes.

            “What is she on?”

            “What?”

            “Which chems did she take?” Carrington elaborated with an exasperated sigh. He took a syringe from his case and slid the needle into her arm.

            Deacon was silent. He couldn’t even think of a clever lie. Chems? Of course she was high. Someone with her injuries couldn’t have fought like that without a little help. A sickening guilt bloomed in his chest. He should have known. He should have helped her. She shouldn’t have gone through that.

            “We’ll have to get her back to HQ,” Carrington remarked.

            “How –how bad…”

            “She’ll be alright,” Carrington said dismissively. “I just didn’t think I needed to bring Addictol for a field medic job.” His tone was caustic but Deacon could see a faint line of worry creasing his brow. Everyone loved Whisper, even the Railroad’s resident grouch.

           

\---

 

           She awoke on a dirty mattress looking up at the cracks in the stone ceiling beneath the church. Everything ached. Whisper closed her eyes and took a deep breath, feeling out how her chest throbbed at the movement. Then she opened her eyes and rolled over with a wince. Deacon was asleep next to her. Her breath caught in her throat. He looked younger when he was asleep. He looked vulnerable.

           Whisper rose shakily to her feet and limped into the main chamber, her leg protesting the whole way. A huddle of people clustered around something in the main room. When she entered, a head turned towards her: Carrington. He frowned at her and left the group.

           “Go back to bed.”

           “What’s going on?” Her tongue moved lazily in her sandpaper mouth.

           “You overdosed. Go back to bed and don’t get up again for a long while.”

           Whisper blinked at him, confused. Dez appeared behind Carrington and placed a hand to his shoulder. He looked to her, nodded, and left.

           “Agent Whisper,” Dez said, “We achieved a great victory last night.”

           “Yeah,” Whisper mumbled. She didn’t want to think about it.

           “Great victories come with great cost.”

           “Glory’s dead.”

           Dez winced at that. “We’ve lost many agents,” she continued. “Whisper, Patriot didn’t make it.”

           “Patriot?” Liam Benet. He was a teenager with sandy hair and a youthful idealism glowing in his eyes.

           “He was killed by the Institute while escaping.”

           Dez stepped forward and clasped Whisper’s hands in her own. When she pulled away, she left a piece of paper curled in Whisper’s fingers.

           “Burn that after,” she whispered. Then she clapped Whisper on the shoulder with a sad smile. “You did good work, agent. Hundreds of synths owe you their lives.”

           “Yeah, ok,” Whisper mumbled. Her head hurt. She limped into the escape tunnels where she would be alone, unfolded the paper, and began to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated" is a Mark Twain quote.


	5. Aftershocks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got some cameos from other companions in this chapter :)

           Deacon awoke to an empty bed and that scared the shit out of him. When had he fallen asleep? He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Where was Whisper?

           He went to the drab corner of the catacombs that served as the infirmary. There were a few injured agents laid out on cots. He didn’t see her among them. Carrington sat against the wall, looking exhausted.

           “Where’s Whisper?” Deacon tried to keep his voice nonchalant but the urgency crept in anyways.

           “She left,” Carrington said, gesturing vaguely towards the tunnels. “She should be on bed rest but god forbid anybody around here actually take my advice into consideration.”

           “Thanks!” Deacon called back. He was already heading for the door.

 

\---

 

           He stopped at Bunker Hill first. He had contacts there and with the caravans coming and going someone might have seen her even if she headed off in another direction. But he heard nothing.

           Well, that wasn’t exactly true. He heard plenty of rumors, just none about Whisper. Everyone was buzzing about the explosion at CIT.

           From there, he headed west, donning a Diamond City guard uniform for anonymity.

           He was scouring the Diamond City marketplace for any trace of her when Nick stopped him asked him to come back to his office. Once inside, he sat at the desk across from Deacon with a stern look on his face.

           “I’m looking for information about our mutual friend.”

           “Sorry, pal, I’m not sure who you’re talking about. Another guard?”

           “Cut the crap. I’m a detective. I know who you are… Look, I’m just trying to make sure she’s alright.”

           “Why wouldn’t she be alright?”

           “Why do you think?”

           Nick stared at Deacon with those unnerving yellow eyes waiting for him to answer. Maybe that worked on the regular bozos he interrogated but Deacon was a professional. He shrugged.

           “Beats me.”

           “Look, I saw her leaving the market a few days ago. She was in town but she didn’t check in with me or Piper. In fact, neither of us has heard from her in weeks. That’s not like her. And when I saw her, she looked sort of… worse for wear.”

           Deacon stayed silent.

           “We’re worried,” Nick elaborated.

           “How many days ago?”

           “Two.”

           He was catching up.

           “Do you know which way she went?”

           “From the looks of it, she was headed north.”

           Deacon stood. “Thanks.” He made for the door.

           “When you see her, tell her we miss her.”

 

\---

 

           He found her in Goodneighbor. Nick was right: she was looking worse for wear. Even from a distance he could tell she was favoring her right leg. When he got closer, he could see the charcoal hollows under her eyes and the new collection of scratches across her left cheek. He kept his distance as she entered the Rexford, reemerging some twenty minutes later and heading straight for the Third Rail where she proceeded to get wasted in record time.

           The next morning, she was up and out of the city at dawn, nursing what he imagined was a hell of a hangover. The radio of her Pipboy echoed softly off the dilapidated buildings.

           “All quiet across the Commonwealth, just the way we like it. Stay safe everyone.”

 

\---

 

           Her days came and went in a dismal routine. She would rise with the sun, hike to a Minutemen allied settlement, and then go kill whoever they wanted dead, never staying in one place for too long. Generally, she avoided Diamond City, The Castle, and the general vicinity of the church. On the nights she spent out in the ‘Wealth, he often heard her crying herself to sleep. On the nights she found some approximation of civilization, usually in Goodneighbor, she would drink until she could barely stand and then stumble back to wherever she was staying. Sometimes he caught her peering into the shadows as if waiting for something. She didn’t sleep much and she didn’t eat much. To his relief, she didn’t touch the chems again. Still, her behavior worried him.

           One night at the Third Rail, as she swayed back and forth, out of time with the music, a drifter came up behind her and tried to feel her up. Deacon felt a burning flash of anger but before he could act, she had swung around and broken her would-be suitor’s nose. As the man yelped and clapped a hand to his bloodied face, she kicked him hard in the ankles, sweeping him off his feet. He fell to the floor with a crash and she leapt upon him, slurring curses, and began to beat him within an inch of his life. The bar went quiet as all eyes turn to the commotion. Soon, Ham the bouncer was flying down the stairs. He pulled her away with some difficulty and shoved her aside. The man on the ground rolled over, the whites of his eyes flashing with animal fear.

           Whisper leaned against the bar and took another deep swig of her drink, watching as Ham motioned for a few of the bar patrons to help the drifter out of the bar.

           “You,” Ham called to Whisper. He approached her and plucked the drink from her hand. “Go sleep it off.”

           She left, grumbling under her breath.

           “What’s wrong with her?” Came a low rasping voice from behind him.

           “She’s had a hard time recently,” Deacon replied.

           “No shit.” The mayor exhaled a cloud of Jet smoke and Deacon narrowed his eyes in irritation. “She’s been in here six nights out of the past ten drinking like she wants to die… You keeping an eye on her?”

           “Naw, just happened to be in town.”

           Hancock squinted at him. “Hmf.”

           “Hey, do me a favor,” Deacon said. “If she starts looking for the hard stuff, see she doesn’t get any.” He didn’t particularly like asking Hancock for favors but he was used to it. Goodneighbor was friendly towards their organization and Hancock could be counted on to turn a blind eye when they needed him to. And he knew from first hand experience how hard it was to get clean once chem addiction set in.

           “Sure,” replied Hancock. “And you see that she doesn’t get that pretty head of hers blown off while she’s wandering the wastes.” He looked towards the stairs, as if her shadow still lingered there. “She’s a good kid.”

           Outside on the pavement, Whisper veered into an alley and vomited onto the worn bricks. The taste in her mouth was hot and acrid and real. She savored it. She deserved it.

           She’d hit him. She’d hit Nate. No, she hit someone else. Nate was dead. Her head ached. She slipped her hand into her pocket and fingered the piece of paper she kept there.

           “I trusted you.” That’s what the note said. It was Patriot’s suicide letter but it could have been written by Allie or Nate or Shaun. Shaun. Her sweet baby. When she closed her eyes, she could still see him smiling, milk-drunk, up at her.

           “If there’s any fairness in the world, you’ll never get a good night’s sleep in what remains of your hopefully short, miserable life.” She staggered towards the Rexford as the sky in the east began to lighten. It looked like Liam would get his wish.

 

\---

 

           Eventually, she teamed up with the mercenary from the Third Rail. She hadn’t paid him or any other bar regular much attention these past few weeks but she stepped in when two Gunners showed up looking for him. There was no love lost between Whisper and the Gunners after their fight over the courser almost a year ago from which she emerged victorious with chip in hand. From across the bar, Deacon couldn’t make out what they were saying but from their body language, he could surmise that she was telling them to beat it.

           After they left, Whisper turned to the merc and sized him up before tossing him a bag of caps. She wasn’t the type to part with her caps easily. But then again, she wasn’t the type to ignore someone in trouble and this guy was obviously in trouble. So she took him with her.

           Deacon wasn’t thrilled with the arrangement. Sure, it was nice that she had someone to watch her back, but did it have to be him? Deacon had done his research on this one. He had looked into most of the regular drifters in Goodneighbor. This guy, MacCready, was an ex-Gunner from the Capital Wasteland who would kill just about anyone for a handful of caps. Still, with him around, Whisper began to cut down on the drinking.

           She hauled him all over the Commonwealth, clearing Super Mutant dens, building fortifications, rescuing the odd settler who got themselves kidnapped. There were fewer and fewer run-ins with enemies as the raider gangs fled west and Whisper cleaned up caches of pre-war ferals. Soon, she turned her attention to the Gunners.

           It made sense. With the Institute and the Brotherhood of Steel gone, the Gunners were the top threat to Whisper’s interests in the Commonwealth. She started with the goons who had come to threaten MacCready. Then she set about destroying their other strongholds throughout the ‘Wealth. There weren’t many. In terms of factions, the Gunners were decidedly less powerful than the Institute and the Brotherhood had been. Hell, the Minutemen probably had more strength behind them and they had only been resurrected for a little over a year.

           She had rounded up some Minutemen troops at the Castle and was planning a concentrated assault on the Gunner headquarters when MacCready pulled her aside and told her something that knocked her off-balance. From his perch on the wall above the courtyard, Deacon couldn’t make out what he had said but he recognized the way her mouth pulled into a thin line. With a scowl, she stalked back to where the gaggle of Minutemen leadership had gathered around the table by the radio. Macready trailed her, looking nervous.

           Whisper sighed and ran a hand through her hair.

           “Fuck,” she whispered. She gazed down at their battle plans, her brow furrowed in frustration.

           “Boss?”

           “What?” she snapped.

           MacCready stepped back and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. By now, he knew better than to try to talk to her when she was like this. One night on the road, he had awoken to the sound of her crying. When he sat up and asked what was wrong her voice sounded just like it did now: raw and angry.

           She turned to her lieutenant colonel and tapped him on the shoulder.

           “Could we do this later?”

           “General?” Preston’s brow furrowed.

           “Can we hold off for a week or so?” She frowned. She really did hate to let him down, especially after he had gone through the trouble of bringing in their troops from various settlements. “I’m sorry. I just –something came up.”

           Perfect. It sounded like she was trying to skip out on a dinner party.

           “Is everything ok?”

           “Yeah, just…” She shrugged. Weariness weighed heavy on her shoulders.

           Preston surveyed the room. “We’ve got enough here to make do without you. If you’re alright with me leading the charge, that is.”

           “Of course I’m alright with that. You’ll probably do a better job than me anyways.” She hesitated. “You’re sure you guys are ok without me?”

           Preston smiled at her. “You’ve been working so hard for us recently. We all appreciate it but I know you could use a break.”

           “Ok,” she replied. As she headed for the gates, she called back, “You could too, you know.”

           “Yes, Ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat in her direction.

           “Come on.” She motioned to MacCready and together they left The Castle.

           Whisper fumed quietly as they traveled northward. As the sun set, MacCready broke the long silence by suggesting that they make camp.

           “I’m good,” she replied tersely.

           “It’s three more hours from here. Come on. We’ll just get ourselves killed if we’re too tired to fight.”

           Reluctantly, Whisper acquiesced and she pitched a pair of makeshift tents as MacCready got a fire going. She refused dinner that night, opting instead to glare at him through the orange haze of flames.

           “What?” he asked, his voice laced with irritation.

           “Nothing.”

           “You didn’t have to drop the Gunner mission, ok. You didn’t have to agree to this at all.”

           She scoffed. He grumbled and went back to his baked bloatfly.

           “You left him there,” she said quietly.

           “What?”

           “He was your son and you left him there alone. He was sick and scared.” Her voice broke. Her eyes were flashing in the firelight.

           MacCready’s face twisted into an anguished scowl. “I had to. The cure is here in the Commonwealth and he was too sick to travel. I didn’t have a choice.”

           “You always have a choice! You could have stayed. You left your boy to die. What kind of a mother are you?” She stopped suddenly, breathless. The word seemed to echo through the stunted trees and ramshackle buildings. Mother. Mother. Mother.

           “W-what?” asked MacCready, visibly confused.

           Whisper felt her face flush with anger and embarrassment. She blinked and swallowed down the shame that coalesced in a hot lump at the base of her throat.

           “Nothing. I’m sorry. You’re right.”

           “If you’ve got some kind of problem –”

           “No. Ignore me. I’m just… It’s been a weird couple of centuries. Goodnight.” And she unfurled her bedroll and wriggled inside, her back to him.

           In the morning, they hit Med-Tec.

 

\---

 

           Deacon donned his usual drifter outfit as Whisper and Macready neared Goodneighbor. Whatever they had been searching for in Med-Tec, they must have found it. Once through the door, he ducked into an alley near the Old Statehouse where he could see Whisper and Macready haggling with Daisy, the shopkeeper. If he concentrated, he could make out snatches of their conversation.

           “Why don’t you go with them?”

           “I can’t afford it.”

           “What?”

           “An extra person is extra caps, sweetheart,” Daisy interjected. “I can slip the medicine in with the rest of my cargo unnoticed but a person… The caravan’s gonna notice that. Guards don’t come cheap and the price goes up if they need to escort extra people.” She smiled sadly. “If it were my choice, I’d let you go along free of charge. But it’s not.”

           Whisper looked frustrated but Deacon could tell by Macready’s resigned expression that he had had this conversation before.

           “Well, how much is it?” she asked.

           Deacon didn’t catch the number but he heard Whisper let out a low whistle.

           “It’s alright,” said Macready. “We’re sending the medicine; he’ll be ok.” He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself as well as her.

           Whisper looked down at her feet and didn’t respond. Then, she untied her purse from her belt and plopped it on the counter.

           “There,” she said. “It’s about twenty five caps short so…” She glanced expectantly towards Macready who looked like he had just swallowed a radroach raw.

           They exchanged some whispers that were too low for Deacon to make out and Macready shoved the bag of caps back into Whisper’s hands. Then he grabbed Whisper by her arm and pulled her away from the stall. “Excuse us,” he said to Daisy. He stopped just short of the alleyway and turned to face her.

           “Why are you doing this?”

           “What?”

           “What do you mean ‘what?’ What’s the catch? First you help me with the gunners, then Med-Tec and now… Now, that is a shi –buttload of caps you’re putting up here. We’re not friends. Why are you doing this for me?”

           “It’s the right thing to do?” She said it like it was a question, like she was hoping it was the right answer.

           “Bullshit. Nobody would go through all this because it’s the ‘right thing to do.’”

           Whisper sighed, lifted her head, and looked up at the neon lights. Their reflections shone brilliant red and blue in her dark eyes.

           After a moment, she spoke: “I had a little boy, too.”

           “Oh,” the merc sounded abashed. “I… I didn’t know.”

           She looked at him and uncrossed her arms. “His name was Shaun. He was just a baby when… It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I… will _never_ hold my son again. But you… you still have that chance. Please take it.”

           “Boss…”

           “Just, take the fucking money.” She pushed the bag at him. He took it reluctantly. Then he caught her in his arms and hugged her tightly.

           “Thank you.”

           They parted.

           “Get out of here.” The words were harsh, but her eyes were soft and a hint of a smile lingered on her lips. That was the first time Deacon had seen her smile since the Institute went up. “And give him a hug for me.”

           She left Goodneighbor that same night and built a camp in an abandoned coffee shop just south of town. It was less safe than renting a room at the Rexford but it was free and, seeing as she just gave away all her caps, free was good.

           The façade of the building was blown apart leaving him with an easy view of her sputtering fire on the dirty linoleum behind the counter. He watched her as she put two cans of cram on the fire. Stretching her arms up behind her head, she leaned back against the worn cabinets.

           “Sure is cold tonight.” She called out into the darkness. “I’d sure feel bad if there were someone out there without a fire or a hot meal. Of course,” she smiled slyly, “said person could always join me. That is, if he got tired of skulking around the shadows all on his lonesome.”

           Deacon chuckled quietly, emerged from his hiding spot behind a vending machine, and entered the shop. Whisper patted the spot on the blanket next to her and he sat.

           “I expect Dez has a new job for me.”

           “Several, actually.”

           “Great,” she said with a sarcasm she didn’t entirely mean. She plucked a can off the fire and offered it to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It never really made sense to me that Macready would choose to stay in the Commonwealth after getting Duncan's cure, so I changed some of that up a bit.


	6. Something True

          Their latest mission sent them after the L&L gang, a dangerous anti-synth raider group who’s numbers had been bolstered by survivors from the Institute and Brotherhood. They made quick work of them, wiping out the bosses as quickly as P.A.M could locate them.

          One night, while staking out one of their camps, Whisper awoke from a nightmare with a strangled shriek. Deacon bolted upright, awake in an instant.

          “Sorry. ‘S nothing. Sorry,” Whisper gasped. “Bad dream.” She pulled her knees to her chest and tried to take deep breaths.

          Deacon surveyed the L&L camp below them. Nothing moved. The ridge on which the Railroad duo camped was far enough away that the sound must not have carried. He moved back towards Whisper.

          “I used to get them too, you know. Had to buy earplugs for everyone in HQ. They called me the Midnight Yodeler for years.”

          “Mmhm,” Whisper said noncommittally. Shit, she knew he was lying. What was he supposed to say? Describe how he used to wake up in a cold sweat? How he had turned to chems? How hard it was to get clean?

          “It gets easier. It just takes some time.” He settled for that. That was mostly true.

          “I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”

          Instead, he turned to his pack and rifled through it.

          “Can I borrow your Pipboy?”

          Without a word, she slid it off her wrist and tossed it to him. Deacon caught it and flipped on the flashlight. He pulled a book from the pack, opened to the first page, and began to read.

            “The Salinas Valley is in Northern California.”

            Whisper scooted back into her bedroll and listened, her open eyes watching the stars above.

            “It is a long, narrow swale between two ranges of mountains –”

            “Is this East of Eden?” Whisper interrupted.

            “Naw, it’s actually another one of Steinbeck’s greats: North of the Glowing Sea. Don’t feel bad; the two are easily confused.”

            Whisper a small smile crept onto Whisper’s lips. “I’ve read this one,” she said. She closed her eyes. “Timshel.”

            “Thou mayest,” Deacon translated. It was the last line of the book. “Everyone has a choice between good and evil,” he thought of those hot summers at University Point with the Deathclaws, “even if they’ve chosen wrong before.”

            “Back at the Institute…” Whisper trailed off as Deacon stiffened. She wasn’t sure how he’d react but it was a conversation they needed to have. It had been gnawing on her since they had teamed back up again. “Back at the Institute,” she started again, “you made the right choice. But it wasn’t your choice to make.”

            Deacon’s face was inscrutable behind his glasses.

            “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment.

            “No, you’re not.”

            He shrugged. “No, I’m not.”

            Whisper sighed.

            “Do you want me to keep reading?”

            “Yeah.” She snuggled down into her bedroll and closed her eyes.

            “I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers. I remember where a toad may live and…”

            Thou mayest. Whisper had a choice to make too. Could she move on? Could she leave Shaun behind?

            “You asleep, pal?” His voice was soft and sweet. Whisper didn’t move. She heard a rustling noise as he put the book back into his pack. Then, to her surprise, she felt his hand on her shoulder. She resisted the urge to hold her breath. Then, it was gone.

            “Sweet dreams, Whisper.”

            And she knew what her choice was.

 

\---

 

          Soon the L&L gang was decimated and their remnants scattered. They were scaving in an old abandoned vault for some tech for Tom. To hear Tom tell it, it was a mission of urgent importance. Whisper doubted that, but after weeks of stalking raiders, she needed something more low-key. An old abandoned vault on the outskirts of the Commonwealth was perfect.

          The antechamber of the vault had what they were looking for: a stack of terminals lined up against the wall next to a long desk. In front of the terminals was a gathering of pre-war skeletons, sat in folding chairs in a circle.

          Whisper went straight for the terminals, pulling several up onto the desk before hopping up beside them, while Deacon examined the skeletons.

          “Hi, everyone, I’m Deacon and I’m an alcoholic.” He let the sound echo for a minute before adding in a high pitched voice, “Hi, Deacon.”

          From her perch on the desk, Whisper giggled. She kicked her feet absentmindedly as she tore into the guts of an old terminal she had balanced on her lap.

          He moseyed around the circle of folding chairs, their skeletal occupants watching him through vacant sockets.

          “Sydney, I see you’ve lost weight!” He exclaimed and gestured to a skeleton in a decaying pink dress.

          Whisper giggled again. She put the terminal to the side.

          “And Foster! Good to see you, you old lazy-bones.”

          “That’s terrible,” Whisper laughed.

          He turned and sidled towards her. “What? You don’t think they have the guts for a few skeleton puns?”

          “Booo!” But she couldn’t hide her smile.

          Deacon grinned and came to a stop in front of her. “They probably won’t even pick up on the joke. They’re just a bunch of numb-skulls.”

          She didn’t laugh and for a moment, he thought he had said something to offend her. Then, she leaned forward and pressed her lips against his. It was a gentle, tentative motion that was over too quickly. When she pulled away, her cheeks were pink and her eyes were wide and vulnerable.

          “Sorry,” she mumbled but Deacon stopped the word with a kiss, pulling her towards him with one hand on her waist and the other on the small of her back. Whisper gasped and wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders. His kiss was passionate and full of want and she felt almost overwhelmed by it. Finally, he pulled away to nuzzle her neck and she whispered into his ear, “I love you. I love you. I love you.” He whimpered and bit her gently. She gasped and wrapped her legs around him and found his lips again. It had been a long time, but her body remembered how this was done. She rolled her hips gently against his and felt him growing hard beneath her.

          She wanted him. Every bit of him. She wanted the lies and the truths and everything in between. She felt tears begin to prickle underneath her closed eyelids and she thought about his eyes, the blinding blue that lingered elusively at the edges of her memory, seen through the red haze of pain and confusion on the beach. She wanted this. But she wanted to do it right.

          “Wait.”

          Deacon froze.

          “I just… can’t do this in front of Sydney and the gang,” she said, motioning to the circle of skeletons.

          Deacon pulled away. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to ruin their innocence.” The absence of her touch almost hurt. He shoved his hands into his pockets.

          “Don’t worry. I know a place.”

 

\---

 

          They made their way east to Somerville Place in the golden light of the setting sun. The settlement was thriving under Minutemen governance and new houses were being constructed along the river to accommodate the growing population of settlers. It was in one of these houses –finished but not yet occupied –that Deacon and Whisper set camp for the night.

          “I believe we have some unfinished business,” Whisper said, doing her best to sound seductive. She never was very good at the whole romance thing.

          Deacon leaned against the wall, looking out the window.

          “Yeah. Those tarberry fields out there aren’t going to harvest themselves.” He hoped he struck the right tone of nonchalance. He hoped she didn’t notice the way his hands shook almost imperceptibly.

          Whisper moved close to him, took him by the shoulder, and turned him towards her. He saw that her lips were parted slightly and then he couldn’t tear his eyes off them. Slowly, she reached up and removed his sunglasses.

          She felt her breath catch in her throat. There was that same beautiful blue, deep and gentle and vulnerable. “I thought I might have dreamed them,” she whispered. Her hand came to rest against his cheek. She was so soft. So close. He could smell her shampoo. He wanted…

          Deacon closed his eyes and his brow furrowed. “You’re young,” he said.

          “I am.”

          “I’m… broken.”

          “Me too.” She waited patiently for him to get to the point.

          “Are you sure about this?”

          She nodded. “And you?”

          “You don’t need to ask me that.” Then he kissed her. His lips were soft and warm against hers.

          After a moment, she broke away. “I’m going to hold you to that,” she murmured. “You’re never getting rid of me now.”

          That sounded just fine to him. He scooped her up in his arms, forcing an unexpected laugh from her, and pulled her to the bed. They landed in a heap of tangled limbs. Quickly righting himself, Deacon pressed his lips to hers once more and began to pull at the buttons of her blouse. Without breaking the kiss, Whisper shrugged out of her shirt and unhooked her bra. Then, she tugged off his shirt and ran her hands along his chest. Deacon shivered, hoping that she could not feel the wild pounding of his heart, and planted a string of feathery kisses along her collarbone.

          Whisper pushed herself up from the bed and slung her left arm around in neck, pulling him close to her, kissing him, while one hand worked at his belt. Everything about her was soft and sweet. He placed his hand at the small of her back and with his fingertips traced over a scar he found there. Then, she had his belt undone and took him in her hand. He gasped.

          Whisper pressed her forehead against his and attempted to stifle a giggle. His face was flushed.

          “It’s –ah –it’s been a long time for me,” he murmured.

          “I think my long time has yours beat,” she replied as she began to work in measured strokes. Deacon groaned. She felt his hands move to her hips, felt his fingers tighten there. It might have hurt if it hadn’t felt so good.

          “Yep, these need to come off,” he breathed and then she was lying on her back again and he was pulling her pants from her. Once her legs were free, she wrapped them loosely around his torso. Propping himself up on one elbow, he reached down and touched her gently with the pad of his thumb. Whisper gasped and clung tighter to him.

          “Take me,” she whispered, half a question and half a command. Deacon obliged. Whisper held her breath as he filled her up, every nerve in her body on fire. She wanted to always feel like this. She wanted him always inside her, his hands always on her. Her climax hit her quickly and Deacon followed soon after, collapsing on top of her with a quiet moan.

          He rolled off of her and Whisper thought for a moment that he was going to push her away, get dressed, and leave with some witty quip. Instead, he pulled her close. She wrapped her arms tightly around him and they lay together in the dark, not speaking, but understanding each other all the same. There in her arms, Deacon found something he hadn’t even known he was looking for: something true.

          “I love you,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Deacon reads from is "East of Eden" by John Steinbeck.  
> The thing about Deacon being an ex-addict isn't cannon per say, but I've seen it tossed around as a theory as to why he dislikes it so much when the Sole Survivor takes chems.


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place about a year after the previous one.

 

          He found her in the meeting spot biting her nails. He had stopped along the road to pick some flowers for her as an apology for being late. She had a soft spot for hubflowers of all things.

          “Deacon,” she called peering into the darkness. “Is that you?”

          “Yeah, last time I checked.”

          “Jesus fucking Christ!” And she flung herself into his arms. Before he could really register what was happening, she had pulled away and was checking him over for injuries. “Are you hurt? Or, or compromised? Or…”

          “Whoa there, Whisper.” He realized with faint horror that her eyes were filled with tears. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s ok.” Her posture relaxed some.

          “You said you’d be here at five. It’s ten thirty.”

          “The run was a little trickier than anticipated. Poor guy refused to move until sunset. Turns out years of being treated as subhuman makes people paranoid. Who knew?” She smiled at that.

          “Oh, and I got you a present,” he continued. “Tah-dah!” he said as he produced the bouquet from behind his back. She took them and tenderly stroked their purple petals. It wasn’t until she raised her head again that he saw she was crying.

          “Hey, it’s ok.”

          “I’m sorry.”

          “It’s ok.”

          “Turns out when people you love have a tendency to turn up dead, you get a little paranoid. Who knew, right?” she said with a shaky laugh.

          He pulled her close and kissed the tears from her cheeks.

          That night as they lay in the heady afterglow of their lovemaking, she asked him, “Is this what you want to do for the rest of your life?”

          “Hmmm, think so,” he murmured, tracing the ridges of her spine with one hand.

          “You know what I mean.”

          He thought for a while before asking, “Is there anything else?”

          “I don’t know,” she said. “But with the Institute gone, there have been fewer and fewer missions the Railroad needs us on. And the Minutemen haven’t had too much use for me since we set up the Provisional Government.”

          There was silence except for the gentle lapping of the waves outside the window and the faint buzz of blood bugs down the block.

          “Do you remember the beach?”

          “Yeah, a little.” She was surprised he wanted to talk about that day and she didn’t see what it had to do with the topic on hand. “It’s like a fever dream: sort of fuzzy around the edges but sharp and bright at the same time. I guess I was pretty out of it.”

          “Do you remember what I said to you?”

          “Hmm… not really. I remember the sound of your voice. It made me feel safe.”

          “You getting sappy on me now?”

          Whisper laughed softly. “Maybe,” she replied and rolled over so that her cheek rested on his chest.

          “Hey, do you think you could do the HQ rendezvous on your own tomorrow? There’s something up north I’ve got to check on.” A little plot of land he’d heard of just off the coast. The perfect place to build a cozy little house. Start up a farm. Maybe even raise some children.

          “Hmm, ok,” she murmured. “Take my heart when you go.”

          She fell asleep to the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, coming and going as sure and steady as the tide.


End file.
